


debt & debtor

by Ashling



Category: Love/Hate (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:26:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26021152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashling/pseuds/Ashling
Summary: She lets him have that smile. He earned it.
Relationships: Dean (Love/Hate) & Siobhan Delaney
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	debt & debtor

**Author's Note:**

> Cats can have a little non-exchange fic, as a treat. (I'm cats.)

Leighton is whining about a second helping of ice cream, so Siobhan stays in the kitchen while Dennis goes to answer the door, but she peers down the hall and sees through the half-open door a slice of Dean's face, only half his mouth, can hear the shape his mouth makes, _Hiya,_ like he's by her ear. And eight years gone, just like that. She gathers herself up, looks—kitchen knife, in the block, three paces away, but what would be the use?—and then steels herself. It's been a while since she's done battle. It's three seconds of preparation as she walks down the hallway.

Dennis is out of his depth but not stupid enough to let the ninety-nine red flags go sailing by, bless him. "I feel like I'd have remembered you from Monica's wedding," he says.

"Oh, I wasn't around for that," says Dean, "seeing as I was in prison." White and green windbreaker, old; faded jeans; boots that don't quite suit the windbreaker. Volume, enough to hide knives in.

"For a while, wasn't it," says Siobhan, drawing level with Dennis's shoulder, squared up beside him like a guardian, like a warning.

Dean's smile widens at the sight of her, but she can't tell if that's a put-on. "Siobhan!"

"He was saying he's your cousin?" Dennis isn't convinced, and Siobhan almost loves him for that, in that moment; just because he's harmless doesn't mean he's blind to those who aren't. It's not nothing.

"Twice-removed, but yeah," she says. Touches his elbow. Behind them, in the kitchen, Leighton is yelling now, full-lung, and that's excuse enough for her to gesture behind her without breaking her stare. "Can you?"

Dennis can. He doesn't want to, but after a second's hesitation, he does go, and as soon as he turns, Siobhan steps forward through the door and closes it behind her.

Outside the air is chilly, and she pulls the sleeves of her jumper over her hands before she folds her arms and glares up at Dean. Time has been decent to him, on the outside, anyway. There's no new scars that she can see, and he could be thirty-three or forty-nine or anywhere in between. He's a little paler than he used to be, that's all. A little more settled, maybe.

"Nice house," he says.

Siobhan tightens her arms across her chest, hardens her eyes, and bites down hard on, _You want it? Come and get it_. "Yeah."

Dean regards her with something like hesitation, and as he leans against the front door, she notices that they're about the same height, if she straightens.

"You look good," he says. "Got some meat on your bones, there."

 _Fucking men._ Siobhan wants to scream. Instead, she says, with a razor-thin edge, "Thanks."

His eyes wander, but not over her. He's going through thin air, looking for something to say, maybe a segue. Then, clearly, abandons it. "That was your man, then?"

"Yeah." She'll be damned if she makes this easy on him.

Dean half-raises an eyebrow. Must have learned that trick in prison, she never saw him do it before. What else has he learned in prison, she wonders.

"He have a name?" Dean says.

"He does."

The silence lies between them like a dead body, heavy and bleeding over both their feet until finally, finally, he says, "I know you needed someone after Tommy. And all that. And it's a nice house."

Jesus fuck, the gall on him, and after everything. But men are men, always. "But what, you'll get me a nicer?" And up goes her chin.

"What?" Genuinely startled. "Fuck, no, just." He wipes his nose with the back of his hand. "I know I'm not a fucking architect—"

"Great, so now you're stalking my boyfriend?"

If there was space for him to backpedal, he would. "No, not stalking, only—"

"Because I'm done with all that," Siobhan snarls. "They're all dead, or they're in prison, and it's not my fault. It's not my fault. You going, that wasn't my fault either. And out of everybody—" Siobhan shouldn't be losing her temper, but she's out of practice and she's scared. She jabs a forefinger at him. "Out of everybody," she hisses, trying to keep her voice down, "you should be the one person left who's on my side."

"I am!" he says, too loud for the leaf-stirred suburban hour, then grimaces at the sound of himself and lowers his voice. "I am, all right?"

"Then what the actual fuck?" Her voice goes higher than she wanted it to. "You just show up at my house? Talk like you've been researching me?"

"I never—" He's got his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "Never got to say thank you, I guess. And if he, like—I know it's not always been easy for you, with—if you wanted—"

It takes a long time for that to sink in, for the fear to drain away, and then, in some trick of the twilight, Dean looks more sheepish than anything, and Siobhan is touched. Yeah, maybe the assumption that she picked the wrong man is shitty, but. Yeah, maybe she's picked the wrong man once or twice.

"Fuck's sake," Siobhan says. "So you never said thank you. You don't need to commit murder over it."

"I know." Dean half-smiles, shoulders going up a fraction. "I know. But if you wanted..."

"I don't," she says, decidedly, but with a tilt of amusement to it too.

"Okay. Well." He fishes a little packet out of his pocket. "Got the kid something." It's a little pacifier, blue with yellow polka dots. The thought of Dean browsing in a baby store would be enough to make a saint snort.

"Thanks," says Siobhan. "But you do know Leighton's old enough to ride a bike by now, right?"

Who knew he could smile with his eyes too? "The other kid."

Right. Siobhan's still getting adjusted to having a steady boyfriend who loves social media, given the earlier years off the grid. But it's not so bad. All his friends seem to think she's cute, and they're excited for her pregnancy, or at least comment that way. All her "friends" think they're good together. She's suddenly curious to know what Dean thinks; he's maybe the only person she can still speak to without four cops present who would know her. But she can't figure out how to frame the question.

"You gonna be all right?" she says instead.

"Oh, yeah," he says. "My uncle's..." He hooks his thumb over his shoulder. "I've got some things cooking. Don't you worry about me."

"Likewise," say Siobhan. "Dennis is fine. He's good with Leighton, he cans his own jam. He's got a bloody tote bag from the library. I could kill him with one hand tied behind my back."

"You could do that to me, probably," says Dean, tentatively venturing into a smile, and he's allowed to joke about her being a killer because he's the only one who was there for her first kill, because he took her bloody shirt and burned it and stayed behind with Fran's body. She lets him have that smile. He earned it.

"Exactly, so mind how you go," says Siobhan, and she knows she's allowed to joke about maybe killing him because she's the only one who tried to save him, ever, because she did save him, because she still remembers the crack of Fran's skull and the way it reverberated down the tire iron, down her arm, because she had to throw away her bloody runners and walk home barefoot. She earned her smile, too.

"I will," says Dean, and pushes off the door.

She doesn't want him to go, suddenly, which is a strange feeling to feel after wanting nothing more than to never see him or any of them ever again. She wants to know: are you different? Am I different? Can we change? She wants to know: Where are we going, after all this? She wants to know when the dreaming gets simpler, she wants to know that neither he nor any of the rest of them will ever drag their troubles to her door like a dog with a bird, she wants to know that it's all over, she wants to know that if it isn't over, she's ready. She wants to know she's not a killer any more, and she wants to know that she's a killer still, and she wants him to tell her this, and she wants to believe it. Eight years isn't enough. Eight years isn't nearly enough. She'll never be over it. But she has no choice.

The right thing to do is keep that door closed. The right thing to do is watch him walk away, with a little wave. She does, and she even calls, "Goodnight," after him.

He says nothing, gives her a little wave, disappears around the corner, and that's it. That's it. Siobhan sits down on the front step for a moment and lets the cool evening breeze roll over her.

The baby inside her is not big enough to have strong kicking legs, but Siobhan feels something in her belly thrum, like a pulse. She puts her hand over it.

"I know," she says.


End file.
